


Maybe Ever

by makeit_takeit



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: First Time, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Series, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 21:53:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12329607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makeit_takeit/pseuds/makeit_takeit
Summary: Nate turns the invasion of Iraq into one long cock tease.





	Maybe Ever

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ on 8/6/2009.

When Nate joins the Marines, he does so with full awareness of what he’s giving up, and what he’s getting in return. He knows exactly who he is, and as far as he’s concerned who he fucks doesn’t have much to do with what makes him the man he is, or the man he wants to be. If the Corps is a little slow to come around on certain things, well, he figures that’s to be expected, and anyway, the liberal Dartmouth culture in which he could fuck who he liked with tacit acceptance and impunity is far from the real world. He knows this, and he’s never thought of giving up his freedom to fuck as much of a sacrifice, at least not when it’s stacked up against all the other ones the Corps demands – ones that really matter, like allowing them to systematically disable his God-given instinct for self-preservation - and he’s never been one for second-guessing himself anyway. He knows what he’s committing to, and he doesn’t expect it to be an issue.  
  
When he’s introduced to his Recon platoon, fresh out of BRC and feeling suddenly wet behind the ears again, he has no reason to think anything is going to be any different than it’s been for the last three years. Recon marines are tougher customers, that’s for goddamn sure, but the men eye him with that same mixture of respect and wariness, like enlisted men always do an officer; nothing new in that, and he’s looked in the mirror, he’s well aware of how he comes across. Knows they’re thinking he’s some limp dick Ivy League fucking kid, and the way Nate sees it, it’s his job to prove them wrong, not their job to trust him when he hasn’t done anything to earn it yet. All he can do is try to show them the respect he hopes to be shown, starting from the top down, and Gunny lets him know right off the bat, that means Sergeant Colbert first and foremost. He goes out of his way to ask Brad’s opinion, to publicly recognize the myriad fucking ways that Brad’s expertise extends beyond his own, and slowly, he can see it starting to work. If there’s one thing he’s learned in the Corps, it’s that enlisted men love nothing more than an officer who’ll acknowledge he doesn’t know every-goddamn-thing all the time, and the more they see him collaborating with them instead of barking dumbass orders at them, the more they like him. And Nate could give a shit about a fucking popularity contest, but he needs them to trust him if he’s going to get them all through this shit alive. So he watches with relief as the suspicion fades from their faces, day by day, and by the time they hit the deck at Mathilda he knows he’s got them.  
  
It takes a few weeks in the desert for him to realize that they’ve got him, too.  
  
Or more specifically, that one of them has got him, and fucking hell does he ever, but when Nate jerks off in the deserted shower tent at night, if he thinks about Brad Colbert’s back with its intricate patterns of muscle and ink, or his giant, capable hands cleaning his weapon with machine-like precision, well, Nate figures that’s not hurting anything, and it’s not breaking any rules. Technically.  
  
Even when sometimes, he thinks that maybe Brad holds his gaze for a little longer than is necessary, or when their shoulders or knees touch as they’re talking tactics, or mapping routes, and maybe they don’t move apart as quickly as they should, even then, Nate doesn’t really believe it means anything. Because, he reminds himself, a) he has to be misunderstanding things, because Brad is the fucking Iceman and all indications are that he is impervious to this kind of decidedly human weakness, and b) they’re about to invade a fucking country and this is the last thing Nate can allow himself to think about, so what the fuck does it matter?  
  
So he’s not worried, even when he eventually has to admit to himself that the relationship he’s established with Brad has veered beyond respect and into a certain type of dependency on his Team Leader, not just strategically or tactically but emotionally as well, which would probably not be considered wise. Not worried, even when he knows the men have started making jokes about Brad having a thing for his LT. Not worried, even when sometimes Brad smiles a certain smile, not the frosty Iceman smile but a real one, one with heat behind it, and Nate’s stomach tightens and lurches in a sickeningly delicious way he hasn’t felt since he was first discovering certain things about himself; since Jared Karnes was assigned as his writing partner for that Survey of Ancient Civilizations project freshman year, and the fumbling, terrifying, exhilarating nights they spent back in his very first dorm room at Dartmouth.  
  
Or, maybe ever.  
  
And fuck, yeah. It’s not until  _maybe ever_  that Nate really starts to worry.  
  
But then the order comes to roll into Iraq, and there’s no time to think about anything but staying alive, much less to worry about things like the way Brad looks at him during briefings. At least, there’s not  _much_  time to worry about things like that. For the most part, the constant violence they’re rolling through acts like a buffer, putting a wide berth between what Nate has come to think of as trivial civilian concerns, like the sexual politics of the military and how distracting it is when Brad brushes his teeth with his shirt off, and real, pressing Marine concerns like sleep, food, water, and not getting dead.  
  
That last one, that takes up the bulk of Nate’s time in country.  
  
But at some point, Nate is finally forced to acknowledge, it’s bound to happen. He can feel the heat coming off Brad now, when they’re close. Can feel all that legendary intensity bearing down on him and there’s no question anymore. At some point, shit is going to go down and all he can do is wait for it, watch it like a ticking time bomb sitting in the passenger seat of his lead vehicle, and hope he has the strength to withstand it when it comes.  
  
So after Nate has jumped with both feet across the line between merely questioning and blatantly refusing his commander’s direct order, after he has watched the lives of all his men flash before his eyes on a bridge, after half his platoon is rendered useless and miserable by illness, and immediately after he stumbles into some bullshit pissing contest with Casey Kasem during which he loses his shit in front of his men in a way that he really probably shouldn’t have, he’s leaning over his Humvee in the dark. All the righteous anger from a moment ago has drained right out of him so all that’s left is pure exhaustion, and he’s looking at his map under cover of his cammie net, wondering what the hell he’s doing here. Then he feels the netting move, feels the bulk of a body behind him, and he knows. Only one person he wants it to be; the same person he hopes to hell it isn’t. Only one person it can be, judging from the size of the shadow that falls over him, and Nate knows he’s weak right now; he closes his eyes and grits his teeth, and prays to anyone or anything that might be listening for the strength to not let this go where he knows it’s going. At least not yet.  
  
_Brad. Guess word travels fast._  
  
He says it in his most efficient Lieutenant voice, curt and disinterested, and without turning around. He can feel, can smell Brad move closer, and then his voice comes from nearer than Nate would like.  
  
_The men are worse than a bunch of old ladies, Sir._  
  
Nate doesn’t turn around, doesn’t move. He just waits, hoping maybe Brad will go away, hoping maybe he won’t.  
  
_I can keep an eye on things, Sir; you should really get some shut-eye._  
  
_As should you, Sergeant._  
  
Nate still doesn’t turn around, and Brad still doesn’t go away, but he doesn’t come any closer, and Nate counts that as a victory, given the circumstances. But it’s fucking short-lived, they all are these days, and Brad’s hand comes into Nate’s view, propping itself next to the map on the Humvee’s hood as Brad leans over, peering down at the route they’ve taken so far. It’s squirreling and twisting nonsensically in a hot red trail across the paper, and it makes Nate’s bile rise just looking at it, at the endless goddamn pointlessness of it.  
  
Then Nate feels Brad’s hand ghost along his spine and settle hot on the small of his back, feels a surge of terror-fueled adrenaline flood his blood, and he knows that as much as that adrenaline may be the cause of the sudden friction in his skivvies, it’s also going to be what will save him. Because the rush comes with a sudden clarity of thought Nate would have thought himself incapable of just 30 seconds ago, and he knows he will handle this situation. He has to.  
  
_Anything I can do to help, Sir?_  
  
Brad’s mouth is too close, way too close to Nate’s ear, and his voice is low and throaty, intent readily apparent. Nate steels himself, like he’s been preparing to need to steel himself for weeks now. He has to make himself clear, and he has to do it now. Decisively.  
  
_This isn’t going to happen, Sergeant._  
  
He doesn’t look up, but his voice is firm and final.  
  
_All due respect, Sir, but it’s already happening._  
  
And Brad leans further over the map, angles himself against the back of Nate’s hip so Nate can feel the pressure of Brad hard against him, so subtle someone else, someone not Nate and not prone to thinking in such ways about Brad Colbert might not even notice. So subtle it might not even be on purpose, if Nate didn’t know well enough by now that Brad does nothing by fucking mistake.  
  
Nate doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just thinks about how this would look if someone – any fucking one – happened by right now, and how easy it would be to ruin his career. To ruin  _Brad’s_   _career_ , and that’s enough to push him into motion. He jerks away, steps farther from Brad, breaks the contact even though he wants nothing more than to lean back into Brad’s touch and let himself feel something other than useless and desperate and defeated for a while. He straightens up, looks Brad right in the eye – has to, even if the heat of Brad’s heavy-lidded gaze makes his skin sizzle and spark. He can’t show that to Brad, not now, and Nate knows if he backs down at all, if he doesn’t maintain control of this situation, Brad will be glad to take it, and then he’s sunk. They both are.  
  
Brad doesn’t blink, doesn’t break Nate’s gaze, and his face remains its usual impassive mask of perfect control, nothing out of the ordinary except for the fire behind his eyes.  
  
_Jesus, Brad. I said this isn’t happening, and I meant it. This_ cannot _happen. Not now. Not as long as we’re in the shit, and I expect you to have the professionalism not to bring it up again. Do I make myself fucking clear, Sergeant?_  
  
Brad sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and nods slowly.  
  
_Yes, Sir._  
  
Then he clears his throat.  
  
_Interrogative, Sir?_  
  
Nate exhales, nods. He knows where this is going, knew where it would go when he chose the words he did, and he knows he should do better than that, should be stronger than to open that door and pretend pathetically he didn’t know Brad would walk right through it, but he can’t, and he’s not, and he’s tired of caring.  
  
_Am I to understand that the order only extends to the end of this tour?_  
  
_Is that what I said, Sergeant?_  
  
_That’s what I heard, yes Sir. But I’m aware of the possibility that I’m just –_  
  
Brad shuffles just a step closer, head ducked just a bit, and his voice lowers.   
  
_It’s possible I only heard what I wanted to hear, Sir._  
  
Nate watches him swallow thickly, watches his eyes dart downward almost imperceptibly for a moment, and suddenly realizes - this is what Brad looks like when he’s nervous, and Nate’s never seen that before.  
  
Nate feels his posture relax, can’t help it. Knows his voice is softer, less commanding when it comes out, and the adrenaline rush from Brad’s touch has waned a bit now, Nate’s mind is going weak and cloudy again. He sighs.  
  
_We’ll revisit this, stateside_.  
  
Brad nods, crisp and businesslike.   
  
_Solid copy, Sir. I’ll be looking forward to it._  
  
Then he grins, the big, blinding, stomach-flipping smile, and turns on his heel. Nate slumps against the Humvee, breathing like he just survived another ambush and wishing to hell he could sleep for months and wake up on the other side of all this bullshit, in some magical time and place where Brad Colbert’s hand on him is allowed to be a relief instead of a threat.  
  
Going home still seems miles away to Nate, still not something he can even fathom. Everything is business as usual – suicide missions, unclear orders, one clusterfuck after another and Nate’s nerves are fraying. Sometimes it seems that no matter what he does, he’s letting his men down, and there are days that Brad’s eyes fall on him and Nate can feel the motherfucking disappointment, and somehow that’s worse than anything else. But every now and then, when Brad looks at him just so, he remembers – remembers the heat of Brad’s hand on his back, faint moisture of Brad’s breath on his neck, things both said and implied – and the promise of all that might be waiting for him back home is enough to get him through one more day in this rat-infested shithole.  
  
When Nate finally puts boots on the ground in Oceanside, he’s thinking about one thing, and that’s his bed. The relative safety of Baghdad, and the recent abundance of hot food, regular sleep and running water in the time since they left Iraq have all gotten Nate back to himself, more or less. That weakness that came with the exhaustion of battle, the mind- and resistance-shredding weariness borne of weeks upon weeks of living in filth, without sleep or food, constantly on the brink of disaster – that frazzled, defeated feeling is ebbing, replaced slowly day by day with the easy self-assurance within which Nate has been accustomed to operating for most of his life. But when he thinks of home the thing he thinks of most is his bed, and he’s not sure that the idea of sleeping for months will ever lose its appeal.  
  
And it’s not that he hasn’t thought of Brad, not that he hasn’t spent time with his dick in his hand, re-living the night by the Humvee and the feel of Brad’s body pressed against him. It’s not that he hasn’t considered what might happen once they’re back home, not that he hasn’t fucking dreamed about it, imagined it a million different ways, it’s just that he hadn’t considered that it would happen so fast. It’s just that he’s caught off guard by Brad at his door, 2 hours after Nate steps foot inside his condo for the first time in 5 months. He swings the door open and sees Brad there in his black leather jacket, helmet hanging from his hand, face all Iceman and shit, and Nate didn’t see that coming.  
  
_Brad?_  
  
_Sir._  
  
_Brad._  
  
Nate’s mind is spinning, suddenly, at Brad showered and shaved and smelling like, what? Nate isn’t sure, but it’s something clean and woody, and that means Brad’s close enough to smell, in his civvies and his motorcycle boots and Nate is in bare feet and fuck, when did Brad get so fucking tall?  
  
_Aren’t you. I mean. Shouldn’t you be out tearing up the town? Figured you’d all be out getting drunk and trying to get —_  
  
Nate stops, immediately flushes pink, watches Brad’s Iceman mask come apart, heat flashing behind his eyes.  
  
_Laid, Sir?_  
  
Nate has to grin.  
  
_Well. Yeah._  
  
_If you’ve got any booze, Sir, I might just accomplish both objectives._  
  
Jesus H. Christ.  
  
_Brad -_  
  
Nate just needs a minute to think, to consider what’s about to happen here; he steps back a few paces, just to catch his breath. But Brad is taking a step inside, all business as he kicks the door closed behind him, and Nate knows it can’t go down like this, him just standing here, not fighting and not consenting, just some passive bystander to his own fate. So he stops backing up and lets Brad close the gap; pulls himself up to his full height and lets Brad’s hand go around the back of his neck, meets Brad’s eyes without flinching.  
  
_Sergeant Colbert._  
  
_Yes, Sir?_  
  
Brad’s gaze is searing, predatory, and he’s right in Nate’s face, lips only inches from Nate’s, so close his breath ghosts over Nate’s face when he speaks, but Nate has regained his footing, no longer shocked nor awed by Brad’s fucking sneak attack, and Nate can see so clearly now that that’s just exactly what this was designed to be. Have to fucking hand it to him, Brad is a tactical genius.  
  
_Two things._  
  
He manages his best Lieutentant voice, commanding and composed.  
  
_Anything, Sir._  
  
Brad’s voice is the antithesis of the Iceman, breathy and agitated, needy, almost, and it makes the bottom drop out of something deep down in Nate’s guts.  
  
_First, don’t call me Sir._  
  
_Yes, Sir._ Nate _._  
  
Brad’s lip ticks up a few degrees on one side, the name sounding wrong somehow on his lips, and Nate couldn’t agree more, but he can’t have Brad calling him fucking Sir when they’re about to. Well.  
  
_And second?_  
  
_When I said we would revisit this stateside? I didn’t necessarily mean 2 hours after arrival._  
  
_All due respect, S--._ Nate _. Then you should have been more clear about your orders. Because I waited as long, in this Marine’s opinion, as could reasonably be expected._  
  
Nate’s tongue slides across his top lip, his lungs feel deflated, and fuck, he’s really in the shit now. Their faces are getting dangerously close, so close Brad’s eyes are starting to blur and swim in Nate’s gaze. He’s got nothing in the tank, no reserves; he’s used up everything he had just making it back home, and now he’s not sure he can mount even a token protest.  
  
What’s more, he’s absolutely sure he doesn’t want to.  
  
_Well, then. I guess as long as you’re here._  
  
Then Brad lunges at him and something persistent in the back of Nate’s mind is still admonishing him, reminding him of his commitment to the Corps, to the code of conduct – he agreed to it, after all, and no one held a fucking gun to his head, did they? - but years of almost-constant celibacy and months of gut-wrenching fucking hunger for exactly _this_  are unleashed at once, and Nate’s mouth opens hot and willing against Brad’s, and the low, barely audible groan that comes out of Brad is everything Nate has been holding on for, and he knows this fight was over before it started. Was over four months and three countries ago, the first time Brad looked at him like  _that_.  
  
Brad pulls his mouth away suddenly, leaves Nate panting while he rips off his jacket, then t-shirt, leaving them where they fall and tugging at his belt. Nate watches, all wet bruised lips and rapt attention focused directly on Brad’s hands, and he’s never seen anything so fascinating as when Brad pulls his fly open and shoves his hand down into his briefs, head cocked back and hissing as he makes contact, and fuck,  _yes_ , Nate’s pretty sure he’s never seen anything in his life that looks that fucking good. He whips his shirt off, too, and now he has Brad’s attention back, and the full force of that laser fucking focus is almost enough to make his knees buckle. He backs away, toward the bedroom, that bed waiting there just like he’s been dreaming of, and Brad right here just like he’s been dreaming of, and Nate’s wondering if maybe he’s hallucinating, because this can’t really be his fucking life. He loses jeans and shorts on the way, eyes locked on Brad’s the whole time, pulling Brad along with him by sheer force of his fucking  _need_ , no hands, no touching required, and by the time Brad’s at the foot of the bed with his boots still on and his jeans still around his hips, Nate’s naked on the bed with his dick in his hand.  
  
_Come the fuck on, Brad, shit._  
  
Brad just grins, this goofy fucking grin Nate’s never seen before, and it’s pure fucking sunshine and rainbows and  _happiness_. It’s totally unexpected and unforeseen coming from Brad, and Nate feels his stomach careen and pitch with that nauseatingly sweet rush of exhilaration that he’s only felt a few times before, and only ever because of Brad.  
  
_Awfully impatient all of a sudden, aren’t we, Nate?_  
  
Brad’s crawling up over him now, running his tongue up the inside of Nate’s thigh and oh Jesus Christ.  
  
_Need I remind you it was you, not I, who insisted on turning the invasion of Iraq into one long fucking cocktease? And now you have the nerve to make demands._  
  
He tsks against Nate’s belly, hot and wet, makes him buck and jerk and whimper,  
  
_Brad, please._ Please.  
  
And it’s absolutely without fucking shame, and Nate could not give a shit less.  
  
_Jesus_ ,  
  
Brad breathes, and his mouth slides down around Nate , fingers circling Nate’s wrists and pinning them to the bed while his head bobs, and Nate squirms under him feeling so fucking relieved he’s afraid he might actually cry.  
  
Brad is skilled and efficient, like what the hell else did Nate expect, all perfect angles and precise execution and carefully controlled breathing and by the end Nate is fighting Brad’s hands around his wrists, struggling futilely to regain some measure of control but it’s gone; it’s so fucking long gone he gives up chasing it and lets himself be carried wherever Brad wants to take him, and Nate’s been rendered still and limp before Brad finally pulls his mouth away with a loud slurping pop.  
  
Nate’s eyes are closed, mind one-hundred-percent-fucking-blown, and he hears Brad panting, feels the squeeze of Brad’s thighs close around his middle, and somewhere in the back of his mind it registers that Brad’s still got his fucking jeans on. When he opens his eyes to make sure, Brad’s got his dick out, stroking right there over Nate’s chest, slow and casual like it’s nothing, but his eyes are dark and hot and his mouth is open, lips wet. And he’s looking down at Nate like a starving fucking animal. Nate swallows hard, voice coming out low and scratchy.  
  
_What do you want?_  
  
_What do_  you _want?_  
  
Nate doesn’t have to be asked twice.  
  
_Same thing I’ve always wanted. You to fuck me._  
  
Brad’s hand stills and his eyes close, nostrils expand as he sucks in air.  
  
_Since when is that what you’ve always wanted?_  
  
_What do you mean, since when? Since always. Since before I even knew you, Brad, that’s since when._  
  
Brad’s eyes open, and he leans down, nuzzles against Nate’s neck, breath warm and tempting against his skin. Also tempting is the way Brad’s sliding his body down over Nate’s, rolling his hips lazily, his dick hard and hot pressed against Nate’s belly, the teeth of his open zipper biting into Nate’s skin. Brad’s hand is skating down Nate’s side, over his belly, between his legs, and his fingers are wet and spit-slick and Nate’s not even sure how that happened, and his face is still pressed into the hollow of Nate’s shoulder.  
  
_Christ it’s been a long fucking time,_  
  
Nate pants, pulling his knees up on either side of Brad, hooking his heel around into the gaping waistband of Brad’s crumpled, twisted jeans and pushing, kicking them down off Brad’s ass. He drags his toes up the back of Brad’s now-bare thigh and gets a jerk and a gasp for his trouble.  
  
_How long,_  
  
Brad wants to know, lips on Nate’s neck, fingers still working, stroking and sliding slowly, and Nate’s dying a little at a time.  
  
_Too goddamn long for you to keep making me wait. Unless you’re legitimately trying to kill me, in which case, well done._  
  
Brad’s hot laugh gusts against Nate’s ear, then he pushes himself up, back onto his knees, and Nate feels cold all over, feet propped up on either side of Brad, watching him pull his wallet out of his back pocket, watching him rip open the condom and roll it down, watching him grin while he squirts Vaseline out of the tube of lip balm he carries in the front pocket of his jeans and reaches down, pushes his fingers into Nate again. Nate’s head falls back, chin pointed to the ceiling, and he knows he’s squirming, feels Brad just looking, watching, but his sense of shame is still MIA, gone into hiding somewhere along with his self-control and his ability to give a shit about all the reasons he shouldn’t be here right now, naked on his bed with his Team Leader’s fingers inside him.  
  
_Always resourceful, that’s one of my favorite qualities of yours, Brad -_  
  
And it starts out sarcastic but devolves into nothing short of a fucking whimper as Brad’s fingers crook and twist.  
  
_It’s not enough, you’re too tight; we need –_  
  
And now it’s Nate with his knuckles going white around Brad’s wrists, making sure those hands don’t move, panting,  
  
_It's enough. Trust me, I'm fine. Just, come on._  
  
And he looks down again to see Brad smirking, Nate knows exactly what that look means and doesn’t give a shit, and Brad’s still got his fucking boots on, jeans still caught around his knees, and Nate needs, seriously, for him to come the hell on.  
  
_Now, okay, please. Do it now, Brad, now._  
  
_Fucking hell._  
  
Brad’s voice is low, a growl of aggression and surrender at the same time, and Nate is flipped over onto his belly before he even realizes, spread open and then Brad’s on top of him, right up against him,  _inside_  him, and fuck, it’s more than Nate bargained for, more than he can stand all at once, and he grits his teeth and hisses and his eyes are stinging suddenly. Then Brad’s arm slides under Nate’s belly and lifts him up, tips him backward, pulls him up until his back is against Brad’s chest. Brad’s big hand slides down over his sweat-slick belly to grip him firmly and Nate’s head lolls back onto Brad’s shoulder.  
  
_Told you it wasn’t enough, Christ. Had to have it your fucking way._  
  
Brad’s voice is tense against Nate’s ear, stretched taut with restraint, hand stroking tight and slick around Nate until he relaxes, then Brad starts rolling his pelvis in slow, gradual circles against Nate’s ass.  
  
Nate can remember it now like déjà vu, that slow seep of fire up his spine, rippling waves of dizziness against a backdrop of blinding light, blood gone icy-hot, and he hasn’t felt this in too long, hasn’t felt this  _ever_ ; nothing like this, nothing like Brad.  
  
_Wrong,_  
  
He’s grunting, probably; he doesn’t give a fuck.  
  
_So fucking wrong. Too much, that’s what it is. Too mother. Fucking. Much._  
  
And then Brad’s mouth attaches to Nate’s exposed throat, grip tensing around Nate’s dick and Nate ceases to talk, or think, or understand, or remember.   
  
When Nate wakes up two days later naked, sore, and half-trapped under the body of his TL, he knows his career as a Marine has run its course. He doesn’t mention this to Brad, not yet, just runs his hand through the buzzed blond hair until the head lifts up off his arm, tugs until Brad slithers up enough to kiss Nate’s mouth.  
  
_Morning, Sir._  
  
It’s only been 48 hours; Brad still forgets to use his name more often than not, and the truth is, Nate doesn’t really mind. Brad’s sentences sound weirdly cut short, incomplete when he leaves it off, and anyway, the way Brad says Sir, he manages to make it sound endearing and filthy all at the same time, and Nate figures there are worse things.


End file.
